


No, I Regret Nothing

by irishcookie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dom facepalms, Drunken Shenanigans, Eames is a cheeky bastard, F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishcookie/pseuds/irishcookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When celebration leads to jail time, who does Ariadne drunk dial?  Why Cobb of course!</p>
            </blockquote>





	No, I Regret Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010. Okay, this just sort of popped into my brain and I went with it. I would classify it as part-crack/part-fluff. Overprotective!Cobb is obviously a kink of mine or something. And yes, I used the English translation of a properly overused phrase in Inceptionland.

The last place on earth Dom Cobb ever wants to step foot in is a police station.

Despite it being nearly a year since he had first stood on American soil, despite passing through immigration with no problems, despite getting pulled over once for speeding (James had a particularly high fever, he got off with a warning), Cobb is still leery of law enforcement. Part of him still thinks that some day he will be pulled away from his life that he cherishes so much. 

With that fear so entrenched in his mind, one would wonder why the hell he is standing in front of an LAPD precinct. The answer is easy. Because she called. 

She being Ariadne, of course. 

Cobb had been asleep when the phone rang. He is a light sleeper now so his eyes open on the first ring, and he is fumbling for the phone in the dark, hoping that his kids haven’t been awakened by the sound. His voice is thick with sleep. “Ello?” His reply is some non-descript garbling that he is sure even the fully awake version of him would not comprehend. He sits up slightly and glances at the clock by his bed – 2:12 in the morning. “Look, you have the wrong number. Or you’re trying to play a joke. Either way I am hanging up…” 

“Oh Dom!” 

The voice is more intelligible now, female. He knows just who it is. “Ariadne,” he says, wide awake. He can’t help but feel the first threads of panic coiling in his stomach. She would never call him this late…unless something was wrong. “What happened?” 

“I really didn’t mean to!” She protests. “Well it just…it just sorta happened…” 

Cobb detects a slight slur to her voice. “Ariadne, are you drunk?” 

“No! I…I…never get drunk. I can hold my liquor real good…” On cue, she hiccups and Cobb winces. The reality is, in fact, the opposite. Earlier that year, she had arrived to celebrate his birthday. One glass of champagne and she had danced on his couch. 

“Are you okay?” Cobb asks. She had just been to his house the day before – she, Eames and Arthur. Something about a job (Cobb never wants to know the details) and being in the neighborhood. She had seemed fine then, happy. She had given him a huge smile and tight squeeze before running off to find the kids. Cobb wonders what exactly has happened over the last twenty four hours. 

“Yeeeaaah, I’m fine,” Ariadne tells him. “They are taking real good care of me here.” 

Somehow, Cobb knows she isn’t talking about Eames and Arthur. There is that panic again. “Where are you?” He asks. He is already throwing back the covers and moving his body so his feet hit the ground. He can call his neighbor to watch the kids. She won’t mind being woken up – she has already told him that she would do anything for Phillipa and James. 

Ariadne prattles on as if he didn’t even pose a question. “You know what, Cobb? I picked you. Out of ALL the people I know…” An exaggeration of course. Ariadne’s social circle is limited to two diametrically opposite colleagues, one single father, an old professor and two kids who like to cling to her legs when they see her. “…I called you. They said I only had one call so I thought I better make it a good one.” 

It clicks. 

“Ariadne, have you been arrested?” Cobb asks slowly. 

“Maybe.” Her voice is small, sheepish – like a child who has been caught doing bad. “But I didn’t mean to do it really. It was Eames. You know Eames. He can talk you into anything. Let’s have a spot of fun, love…” Her last words are spoken in a piss poor attempt at a British accent combined with drunken slurring. “Fun, my ass!” She adds indignantly. 

Cobb can hear a voice in the background telling her to hurry up. “Alright, alright…geez, these guys don’t really smile here. I don’t know why everyone is so worked up. It was only a joke,” Ariadne says. 

“Do you need me to come pick you up?” Cobb asks. He flicks on the lamp, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light. 

“You don’t have to do that. I am sure that you are sleeping or something.” Her words are absurd because he is not sleeping – not anymore thanks to her. 

“How do you plan to get released?” Cobb asks. 

There is a long pause. Ariadne is thinking. Her usually quick mind has been bogged down with alcohol. Finally she speaks, “Oh…right.” 

“Tell me where you are and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Ariadne does. Cobb calls his neighbor who, after getting over being woken, is more than glad to come and watch his children. He dresses and then drives to the near hour drive to the precinct she had managed to rattle off with coaxing from the officer standing watch. 

And now, here he stands, looking at the building as if it may swallow him whole. He takes a deep breath and climbs the stairs. When he pushes open the door, he half expects every officer in the place to stop and look in his direction. But no one does. The place is a scurry of activity – it’s after three a.m. on a Saturday morning. No doubt the height of insanity in a place like this. 

Cobb slowly walks toward the front desk, where a woman, name tagged Cindy, sits going over a mountain of paper work. When he places his hands on the edge of the desk, she looks up. “Yes?” Her voice is clipped, and all business. 

“I am here to post bail for my friend, Ariadne Mitro,” Cobb tells her noting a scantily clad hooker sitting handcuffed on a bench nearby. How the hell did Ariadne end up in a place like this? 

“Name?” 

Cobb looks back to Cindy, and for a moment he thinks he is going to turn and run. But he can’t very well leave Ariadne here. Certainly not after all she had done for him. It will be fine, he assures himself. “Dominic Cobb.” 

There is no flicker of recognition on her face. She begins digging through the stack of paperwork and Cobb has his hand wrapped around the top in his jacket pocket. He is sorely tempted to pull it out and give it a spin on the counter just to be sure. But somehow he thinks that he’ll end up looking like one of the crazies to the overworked woman. Cindy pulls out a sheet and scans it over. “Just her? Not the other two that were brought in with her?” 

Cobb groans. Christ, he should have realized. She had, after all, said that everything was Eames’ idea. “Them too,” he answers and she is back in the pile, pulling out two more sheets. 

“It’s gonna take some time to processes this, setup their release forms. You can wait on the bench over there,” she tells him with a jerk of her head. 

Next to the prostitute? 

“Can I see them?” Cobb asks instead. 

“Sure thing. CLARENCE!” Cobb jumps at Cindy’s abrupt scream and watches as a rather rotund officer comes forward. “This gentleman wants to see the fabulous trio…” She hits a button, the gate separating him from the interior of the precinct swings open and soon he is following Clarence towards the holding cells. 

“Have they been charged with anything?” Cobb asks, not sure he wants to know the answer, especially when Clarence chuckles. 

“Intoxication in public, mischief, disturbing the peace, public lewdness, and public urination,” Clarence rattles off with a grin as he inserts a key in the lock and then opens a heavy door. Cobb stops for a moment, eyeing the row of cells that could have become his home. He then pushes forward. 

There is every manner of person in the holding cell – drunks, a collection of hookers past their prime, and someone Cobb is sure is out of his mind on acid. He follows Clarence to the last cell (it would be the last cell) on the left – and there, there he sees his old team. 

It’s quite an unusual sight. 

Ariadne catches his eye first. How could she not? All she is dressed in is an oversized LAPD grey t-shirt. And she is dancing (a theme in her intoxication perhaps?) around the cell singing Edith Piaf horribly off key. Eames is seated on the bench lining the side wall, watching and clapping encouragingly. And Arthur…well, Arthur is face first in his own jacket on the bench along the back wall. His eyes are closed and his back end is thrust high in the air. 

Once again, he fights the urge to take out the top and spin it. 

Cobb stands there, hands firmly jammed in his pockets, taking in the bizarre tableau for a moment. Ariadne is waltzing now, without a partner, somehow managing not to stumble over her own feet. In any other context it might appear playful and carefree. Here, within the confines of a small cell, it looked more on the deranged side. 

Eames notices him first. His eyes get impossibly wide and Cobb hears a mutter of “Oh shit” before Eames is on his feet, staggering slightly to the front of the cell. Cobb can see that he has the beginnings of a black eye. Before the night is over, Cobb thinks he may blacken the other one. “Cobb, my good man, what brings you here?” 

“What the hell happened?” Cobb asks through clenched teeth. 

“A misunderstanding I assure you,” Eames begins. When Cobb steps closer to the cell, Eames’ face betrays the hint of fear that Cobb was hoping to inflict. “Just a celebration of a job well done.” This time he stutters. 

Cobb can see Ariadne twirling around out of the corner of his eye. “A celebration that lands you in jail with a handful of misdemeanors?” He asks, his voice tightly controlled. Thankfully he has his hands in his pockets making it easier to resist the urge to punch Eames in the stomach. 

Eames tries to smile in the face of Cobb’s anger. “It…it appears it may have gotten out of hand. But no worries, this is nothing that I can’t talk my way out of come morning when the last of the alcohol wears off. You really shouldn’t have worried yourself, Cobb.” He appears to think for a moment. “How did you find out about this?” 

And suddenly Ariadne has stopped her incessant twirling as if she has realized that he is there for the first time. She lets out a delighted squeal that has both men wincing and she is rushing forward, squeezing herself between Eames and the bars. “Cobb, you came!” 

“Figures,” Eames mutters. 

“I told you I would,” Cobb says as he takes in her state. Besides apparently suffering the loss of her clothes, she has a glazed look in her eyes and he wonders if that is a leaf tangled in her hair. She is a mess – a happy one, but a mess none the less. “What happened?” 

“A lot!” Ariadne exclaims. “We did a real good job – I think you would be proud…we even managed to…” 

“Oh, love!” Eames tells her, eyeing Clarence who has taken up post nearby. 

Ariadne’s eyes widen. “Oh right!” She lowers her voice and leans closer to the bar. Cobb steps forward. “Anyway, you would have liked it. But I get why you wouldn’t want to do it. You need to be with your kids…” She suddenly makes a face. “What about Phillipa and James? You didn’t leave them by themselves did you?” She asks, clearly horrified. 

“My neighbor is looking after them, Ariadne,” he assures her. Dammit, he just wants to know what happened. “After the job, what did you do?” 

“We had champagne. I love champagne – the way it tickles your mouth,” she says and Cobb senses that she is about to wax poetic about the bubbly stuff so he looks to Eames expectantly. 

“We went…to a bar,” Eames says and that appears to be all he wants to say. 

Ariadne nods enthusiastically. “You should have seen the place…so many pretty colored drinks that tasted like popsicles. I never did decide which one was my favorite. Maybe the blue one. I liked the blue one right?” She asks glancing up at Eames. 

“Oh yes, the blue one,” Eames confirms, aware of the fact that Cobb is staring a hole into him. It’s enough to sober him up just a little. 

“And there were so many beautiful people there. They were dancing; they took their clothes off…” 

“You went to a strip club?” Cobb barks in Eames’ direction. Behind the group, Arthur moans into his jacket but never stirs fully. 

“It was not a strip club! They were not strippers!” Ariadne declares, her voice indignant once again. She furrows her brows together. “I am too classy to be taken to a strip club. It was performance art, Cobb.” 

“Of the highly erotic kind,” Eames adds before he can think better of it. One look from Cobb and his mouth falls shut. 

“If it was stripping I wouldn’t have volunteered,” Ariadne is muttering, clearly offended at the entire notion. 

Volunteered? The word rings through Cobb’s head. He forms the next question carefully. “You…you volunteered for what?” 

“To try it!” Ariadne tells him with a wide grin. “Apparently anyone can…” 

“Amateur night,” Eames mouths and then avoids eye contact with his former boss. 

Cobb runs a hand over his face. Don’t picture it, don’t picture it, don’t picture it. It becomes a mantra that runs through his head. “So you took part in this…” He almost says ‘stripping’ but then he knows better. “…performance art?” 

“I did,” Ariadne nods. “They even had the song I requested…”She closes her eyes and begins to sway, the words to La vie en rose falling from her lips. 

“You stripped to Edith Piaf?!” Cobb exclaims before he can stop himself. 

“Some pop version,” Eames says as if that makes it any better. 

_Don’t picture it._

Ariadne is reaching through the bars to swat Cobb. “I DID NOT STRIP!” Her outburst draws the attention of Clarence who thankfully backs off when Cobb puts up his hand. 

“Okay,” Cobb is ready to leave that portion of the night behind. “And then?” 

“Well, I was doing wonderfully until some loser decided he wanted to join in. He tried to grab me but big bad Eames and wonderful white knight Arthur pounced on him. Like cats!” Ariadne’s hands mimic her version of the boys’ movements. “I don’t think the employees…” Eames mouths the word ‘bouncers’. “…liked it very much so they asked us to leave. Arthur carried me out…like that scene in The Bodyguard.” 

“Without your clothes,” Cobb finishes. 

Ariadne looks down. “Oh…these aren’t my clothes. Eames, these aren’t my clothes!” 

“I can see that, love,” Eames assures her. 

“I liked that scarf!” Ariadne cries, clearly mourning the loss of her clothes. “Do you think if I went back they would still have it?” 

“Doubtful,” Eames places his hands on her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. She hangs her head, “Shit.” 

Cobb has a picture in his head now. The three of them, walking…no stumbling down some darkly lit street. Ariadne may or may not be in underwear – he can’t quite tell under that baggy shirt. Eames is drunk (not that he needs that as an excuse to misbehave) and Arthur’s well maintained control has been compromised (given his current state, severely compromised). He knows that the story does not end with them being thrown out of a strip club…excuse him, establishment for performance art of the erotic kind. He takes a deep breath. “Do I want to know what happens next?” 

“Not likely,” Eames tells him. He already knows he is in deep shit. There is no sense skirting around it. 

“Tell me anyway,” Cobb says with deadly calm. Ariadne is completely unaware of the tension between the two former colleagues and is instead fingering the hem of the shirt with a look of sadness. It must have been a truly magnificent scarf. 

Eames looks at the ceiling for a moment and Cobb knows the forger is thinking about a way to word it that won’t end in a punch to the face. “We forgot which hotel we were checked into. The key cards were in Ariadne’s pants pocket. She was supposed to be the responsible one…” 

“Should have given them to Arthur,” Ariadne mutters sullenly. 

“So we decided to check into another one. Ariadne said she was cold,” Eames told him. 

“And you didn’t think to offer her your jacket?” Cobb asks dryly. 

“Bloody hell, never thought of that,” Eames answers. He looks down at the architect. “Sorry, love.” 

“It’s okay,” she assures him and then sways a little. Cobb finds himself reaching through the bars to steady her. Once righted she giggles a little. “Thanks.” 

“Continue Eames,” Cobb commands keeping his eyes on Ariadne. Just how many of those blue drinks did she have? 

“The first hotel we came upon was the Beverly Wilshire,” Eames says. “Marvelous place…” 

“Great architecture,” Ariadne chimes in. 

“The doorman claimed it was full – some celebrity party or something. Rooms set aside for the best and brightest of Hollywood,” Eames stops, knowing the next part might set Cobb off. “So we concocted a little ruse….” 

“It was a joke,” Ariadne corrects. “A joke!” 

When Cobb raises his eyebrows, Eames continues. “We…may have told the front desk that she…” Meaning Ariadne. “…was the bint from Twilight.” 

“I look like the bint from Twilight,” Ariadne says. “Minus the perpetual frown.” 

“I take it they didn’t quite buy your story,” Cobb says. He’s seething now. He has many images – most involving harming Eames. He finds it hard to lay blame on Ariadne because Eames is so very convincing and she is so very drunk. Maybe Arthur deserves some of the blame too but the young man is still snoring away contently with his rump in the air. 

Eames shakes his head. “Apparently the young woman at the front desk was a…a…” He makes a face, struggling for the right word. 

“A twihard,” Ariadne finishes. 

“Needless to say we were asked to leave,” Eames tells him. 

“What happened next?” Cobb asks. He has his hands jammed back in his pockets again. For as long as he lives he knows he will never forget this night – no matter how much he wants to. 

“We were arrested wandering down Santa Monica Boulevard,” Eames says, clearly glad that the story was over. 

Cobb is not convinced. “Public urination?” He looks pointedly at Eames. 

“Oh fuck off, I don’t whip my John Thomas out in public,” Eames scoffs, clearly offended. He jerks a thumb in Arthur’s direction. “That idiot decided he couldn’t hold it any longer just as the cop car pulled up along side. If it wasn’t for him, I think I could have talked our way out of it.” 

“And that is all?” Cobb asks. Please dear God let that be all. 

Ariadne nods. “Well, except for the part where Arthur punched Eames for trying to kiss him. But that was way before we popped the champagne.” 

“Right,” Cobb says. He glances at Clarence. “Release forms ready?” He asks hopefully. The sooner he gets these three out, the sooner he can go home, the sooner he can find some sort of sleeping aid and convince himself in the morning that this was all a nightmare (it’ll be a hard sell what with the no dreaming thing and all). 

Clarence hollers to the front desk in a similar fashion to what he had been hollered at earlier. Cindy comes running over and Clarence repeats Cobb’s question. She nods and Cobb resists the urge to thank Jesus right then and there. He starts to go but feels Ariadne wrap her little hand around his wrist. He stops and leans in to speak quietly. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” 

“Okay,” She says. The glimmer of alcohol is starting to wear off and she is looking lost and worn. 

Cobb signs a few papers and writes a check for a considerable amount. He briefly considers leaving Eames there but knows that Ariadne will protest. He phones for a taxi while Cindy looks over the paperwork. When she is satisfied, Cobb follows Clarence once again to the cells. The big man opens the door and Ariadne flies out, hitting him hard and wrapping her arms around him tightly. He grimaces for a second and manages to hug her back before glancing toward Eames, who is eyeing him cautiously. “I am not going to hit you, Eames. At least not tonight.” 

“I appreciate it,” Eames walks to Arthur’s sleeping form, winds up and cracks him hard across the ass. Arthur’s eyes fly open, he makes some sort of gurgled cry, and falls onto the hard jail floor. He is blinking rapidly when Eames leans down. “Wakey, wakey, darling, we’ve been sprung free.” 

Arthur’s eyes land on Cobb, who has his arm around Ariadne. The point man’s head falls as he stands, scooping up the jacket as he does so. He is the next to exit the cell, muttering some sort of apology as he goes. Eames follows his partner in crime, sticking far away from Cobb as possible. 

Ariadne leans heavily against him as they walk toward the exit. She hasn’t quite got the use of her legs back yet, stumbling here and there and relying on Cobb to catch her. He does so without complaint and when they step outside into the early morning air, she shivers. Cobb steadies her long enough to slip off his jacket and insist that she put it on. As she is struggling to operate the sleeves he glances at Arthur. “You should have given her your jacket…” 

“It’s tailor made,” Arthur says automatically. 

“Ten minutes ago you were drooling into it,” Cobb replies as he helps Ariadne into his. It nearly engulfs her and only serves to make her look that much more pathetic but at least she is warm. As he is buttoning it up, a taxi pulls up. “Good.” He turns to the two men. “There’s your taxi.” 

Eames reaches out to help Ariadne but Cobb steps in between them. “She’s coming with me,” he tells them quietly and thinks he may go back on his promise to the forger. “You two can pick her up when you are both nice and sober and are less inclined to be a corrupt influence.” 

Eames knows when he should back down so reaches for Arthur instead. “Come alone then darling.” He says and the two descend the stairs. Cobb swears he hears Arthur mutter something about the entire thing being her idea in the first place. 

He turns to find Ariadne waving them off before she suddenly stops, looking horrified. “Wait…why aren’t I going with them?”

“You’re wearing my jacket,” Cobb tells her as if it is a logical explanation. Perhaps it is to her alcohol laden brain because he has no further problems (beyond the occasional stumble) in getting her to his car. 

When he starts the engine, he finds that it is 4:23 am. Perfect. It will be after five when they get to his home, and the kids were usually up by seven. Ariadne is slouched in the seat, her head lolling to the side and she is starting at him through hooded eyes. “You didn’t have to come,” she finally says. 

“Yes I did,” Cobb answers immediately. 

And then she is reaching out, her hand escaping the confines of the jacket to touch the side of his face. He can’t help but lean into it. “Thank you…” She says quietly, and then her hand falls away. When he looks over she has passed out and he gets to enjoy the rest of the ride in blissful silence. 

Getting inside is easy. She is feather light and dead to the world. His neighbor says nothing and Cobb promises that he will return the favor (by perhaps taking a look at her busted storm gutter one of these days). When the door is locked behind her, Cobb makes the quick decision to settle Ariadne into his bed. He carefully removes his jacket and gets a sweet sense of relief when he notices a pair of red panties peaking out from underneath the grey shirt. 

He grabs a pillow and blanket, makes his way to the couch and collapses, still fully dressed, to enjoy what is left of sleep time. 

Cobb wakes on his own, surprisingly. As his eyes shift into focus the mantle clock tells him that it is after nine. He can hear Phillipa’s soft whispers and sits up to see his children playing quietly on the floor. In the distance he can see two empty bowls on the table, a few drops of milk splattered here and there. A slow smile comes to his face as he leans over to kiss his daughter’s head. She kisses him in return. 

He’s a little stiff, and stretches as he makes his way to the stairs. He knocks carefully on his bedroom door. There is the sound of running water coming from the adjacent bathroom. Pushing the door open, he steps inside just in time to hear her retch. “Ariadne,” he says quietly as he crosses the room and lays a hand on the bathroom door. It slowly opens and he is greeted by the sight of her pale, sweaty and quite literally hugging the toilet. She looks at him, a hint of embarrassment and a hint of pain playing across her features. He leans down, runs hand across her back to rest on her shoulder. “I’ll make coffee.” 

Ariadne smiles.


End file.
